


Hear Me

by Lynchy8



Series: Fun (and sad!) little drabbles [21]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Death, M/M, Oneshot, Pining, Relationship breakdown, sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:38:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire's relationship is going through a few problems after a rally goes wrong. Enjolras desperately tries to fix them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hear Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello  
> this is definitely a sad fic. Also, there's a warning for death.

Of course Enjolras hadn’t known the rally would end up the way it did. Everything had been going brilliantly up to that point; the weather was fine and there was a high turnout. The crowd had been yelling and cheering along and he remembered feeling so high and exuberant as if their voices could carry him through the clouds. It was going well.

But crowds are unpredictable, especially in high numbers. Not all voices are friendly. Enjolras had watched with horror as the happy atmosphere disintegrated, imploded, until it was all running and screaming. Someone grabbed his arm, pulling him. He caught a flash of Combeferre’s worried face through the screaming throng. He could feel his heart beating fast in his chest as he searched for Grantaire; he needed Grantaire.

Suddenly, Enjolras suffered a blow and he lost his footing. The sky disappeared above him as he was swallowed by the charging herd of people all stampeding to get away. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe; he was only dimly aware of the feet trampling over him. He felt like he was going to die.

_One Year Later_

Enjolras lay in bed watching Grantaire sleep. It was that peaceful part of the day where he was able to take his time and really look at his boyfriend; observe the soft crook of the man’s nose, the way his brown curls tumbled about his forehead and the thick black eyelashes that rested on Grantaire’s cheeks. He knew Grantaire didn’t agree, but Enjolras thought he was beautiful. Not in a fresh-out-of-a-movie way by any means, but then who wanted that? All air brushing and fakery. Grantaire was real and he was Enjolras’s.

Or, at least, he used to be. Enjolras sighed, a heavy weight in his chest. Things between him and Grantaire were strained. They didn’t seem to really talk these days and it had all started with that rally. Enjolras squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memory of that day away, before turning his attention back to the man asleep before him. 

Grantaire drank too much. He stayed out late. Sometimes he slept on the sofa, or over at Jehan’s place. But last night he actually stayed in their bed for once. It was nice to have him back, even if it was only in sleep.

Enjolras was at fault too. He threw himself into his studies, spending most of his time at the library reading. Since the Incident there were no more formal meetings. He hoped, instead, that he and Grantaire could spend some time together, to try to rebuild their bond, but that didn’t appear to be working out too well.

“I love you,” he murmured, bending down to brush a kiss to Grantaire’s forehead. Grantaire stirred in his sleep.

“Enjolras,” he murmured and it broke the blond’s heart to hear the tenderness in Grantaire’s voice. It gave him a little bit of hope. Maybe they would be ok.

+

“I just don’t know what to do,” Enjolras sighed in frustration. He was in the library with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, having spotted them huddled together and had gone over to join them. He rubbed anxiously at his chest, at the steady ache building there.

Combeferre was studiously reading a book, calmly turning the pages, while Courfeyrac scribbled some notes, his tongue sticking out with concentration. Normally Enjolras found the library to be a calm and stimulating environment but right now he wanted to scream.

“Guys, please help me!” He had always been able to rely on Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They were his right and left hands; he would be lost without either of them.

Combeferre sighed, rubbing his eyes with his fingers.

“I don’t know, what do you think?” Combeferre groaned, addressing Courfeyrac who looked up at him, wearing a distinctly unimpressed expression.

“You know what I think,” Courfeyrac stated, matter-of-factly. “I think you should just talk to him.”

Enjolras sighed. They were right of course. There was no other solution, but it was hard all the same because Grantaire didn’t always listen.

When he got home, Grantaire was already passed out on the couch in the living room, wrapped up in Enjolras’s hoodie, a blanket thrown over him. Quietly, Enjolras tip-toed over to the sofa and knelt down next to the sleeping man. He looked so peaceful, the frown that usually adorned his face erased by the restfulness of sleep.

“I miss you,” Enjolras muttered, running his fingers through Grantaire’s hair.

+

Enjolras ran towards the Musain feeling slightly panicked. Oh he was late, he was so late. Grantaire was going to kill him. Or worse, dump him. 

He wasn’t sure how, but he had completely lost track of the time. He had been in the library and then suddenly it was eight o’clock and the lights were being turned out and _why today of all days!_

Their anniversary; Enjolras hadn’t forgotten, he had just lost track of the time. Grantaire would understand, surely. He knew what Enjolras was like once he got into a good book. 

But that was no excuse. He knew it was no excuse. It was their anniversary, their special day commemorating when they had finally got their act together, stopped mucking around and finally admitted how they truly felt. It was the anniversary of the day he had finally been permitted to kiss those lips and had known that he never wanted to kiss anyone else ever again. He had intended it to be special and now he had fucked it up by being late.

As he entered the Musain, he spotted Grantaire sitting alone at their table, a full and untouched bottle of wine standing open. Grantaire’s face was a mixture of pain and misery with an undercurrent of anger. Enjolras felt apprehensive as he jogged up to the table, throwing himself down into the seat opposite Grantaire.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, love, I really am,” he tried to catch his breath, ignoring the terrible pain in his chest as he looked imploringly at his boyfriend. Grantaire said nothing, staring down at the table top as he chewed his lip. The silence stretched on, painful and empty.

“Grantaire, please,” Enjolras started, leaning forward to take Grantaire’s hand, but the man withdrew, dropping his clasped hands onto his lap as he looked up, looked over Enjolras’s shoulder, still unable to meet the man’s eyes. Enjolras could see the tears there waiting to fall.

“Happy fucking anniversary, Enjolras,” Grantaire huffed, jerking to his feet and storming away from the table. Enjolras felt like he had been punched in the stomach. He rose, turning to follow Grantaire, to beg him to please listen, to give him a chance. He could see Grantaire marching through the crowd. 

Then suddenly Combeferre was there. He caught Grantaire by the shoulders and Enjolras watched as his best friend drew Grantaire in for a hug, his hand rubbing reassuringly up and down Grantaire’s back as he murmured words of comfort into the man’s ear. Enjolras felt his legs turn to stone.

Grantaire was with Combeferre. Combeferre would look after him, he would be safe. With Combeferre, maybe Grantaire could calm down and then tomorrow Enjolras would apologise and they could talk. It would be ok. It would be fine.

Grantaire didn’t return to their flat for a week.

+

Enjolras caught sight of Jean Prouvaire through a crowd of people walking down the high street. He thought their eyes met, but he must have been mistaken as Jehan did not stop to greet him, but continued on his way.

“Jehan!” Enjolras called after him, but Jehan didn’t stop. Instead, the boy stepped smartly off the curb and jogged across the road, heading for the large church further down. Enjolras watched as his friend mounted the stairs and slipped through the large wooden doorway.

Enjolras paused for a moment. Had Jehan seen him and chosen to ignore him? Or had the man been lost in one of his daydreams again? Enjolras hoped it was the latter. He knew he had really upset Grantaire over the whole anniversary debacle, but that was no excuse for the rest of his friends to shun him.

Making his decision, Enjolras crossed the road, following the path so recently taken by Jehan. The church was large; one of those Victorian faux-gothic monstrosities. In truth, Enjolras was surprised that Jehan would enter such a building, but then he knew his poet friend had a Romantic soul and did not pretend to fully understand all his flights of fancy.

“Jehan,” he murmured softly, spotting his friend’s familiar auburn hair which had been braided and then wound into a bun. Jehan didn’t jump, but merely turned slowly from where he sat in a pew half way down the knave.

“Enjolras,” Jehan stared at him wide-eyed. “Why are you here?”

Enjolras offered him a shy smile in return.

“I followed you in here! I guess you were day-dreaming and didn’t hear me call,” he replied, sitting down beside his friend.

“No, I suppose I didn’t,” Jehan muttered, almost to himself.

“Can I help you at all, is there anything you need?”

Dear Jehan! Enjolras sighed, suddenly feeling the pressure that had been building up in his chest for weeks rising to the fore. It was very lonely being him right now. He hated fighting with Grantaire. He hated how they never made time for each other anymore. He hated that he seemed to have fallen out with Combeferre and Courfeyrac as they never texted him anymore. No doubt they blamed him for the fallout with Grantaire.

“I need your help, Jehan. I don’t know what to do.”

Jehan turned in his seat, a look of concentration crossing his fair features.

“I feel like I’m losing Grantaire.”

It hurt to say it out loud, to admit that there was a problem. It had taken them so long to get to the point where they were happy with each other and those days had been amazing. He could remember, clear as day, just how Grantaire’s face lit up with the most magic smile. He closed his eyes and Enjolras could almost taste Grantaire on his lips. There was a scent about his boyfriend that was unique and Enjolras missed the way it crept into his lungs and lingered on his coat.

“I love him so much and I would do anything for him,” Enjolras said, desperation clouding his voice. “He used to be happy. We used to be happy. I don’t know how to fix us.”

Jehan was pulling on his lower lip and there were tears in his eyes. Enjolras tried to smile; he didn’t like to see his friends upset.

“I’m probably being overdramatic,” he said quickly, looking away, but Jehan suddenly leant forward.

“Not at all. You love Grantaire,” Jehan affirmed, his voice thick with emotion. “And that’s beautiful.”

Enjolras took a steadying breath. He looked up at the impressive ceiling of the church, trying to get a grip on himself.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” Jehan offered after a moment’s pause. “Grantaire loves you too, Enjolras. You should talk to him.”

Enjolras sighed. He had tried, heaven knows, he had tried to talk to Grantaire. Well, he would just have to try again.

+

It was autumn. Leaves skittered across the grey pavement, twirling playfully in the breeze as cars and mopeds sped along the Parisian cobbles. Paris in the autumn was so beautiful. Just last year, Enjolras had kicked through these leaves arm in arm with Grantaire. How things had changed. 

As he passed by the Musain on his way back to the flat, he glanced through the window, almost automatically. He came a sudden stop, his breath catching in his chest. Grantaire was in the Musain, not in his usual spot, their table by the corner, the table they always sat at. Right now he was sitting in the window, and he was smiling. Enjolras’s heart stuttered at the very sight. He couldn’t remember the last time Grantaire had smiled like that.

Sitting opposite Grantaire, his smile much more shy and tentative, was Combeferre. Their mugs were empty, they had obviously been there for some time. At first, Enjolras was confused. He didn’t know Grantaire and Combeferre met for coffee.

But then something happened, something so horrible and so unexpected it took Enjolras’s breath away. Combeferre reached out and gently placed his hand over Grantaire’s. And Grantaire didn’t pull his hand away. 

+

“You were wrong, Jehan!” Enjolras burst into Jehan’s flat before throwing himself down on Jehan’s sofa, burying his face into a cushion.

“I saw them, Jehan I saw them! My _boyfriend_ and my _best friend_.”

It was horrible, it was painful. It was the worst pain ever. Enjolras was sure he would split in two. That light smile on Grantaire’s face, the tentative way that Combeferre had reached out, had rested his hand over Grantaire’s, running his thumb gently over Grantaire’s knuckles. The soft blush painting Grantaire’s cheek. 

“Enjolras!”

Jehan’s voice brought him back into the room like a slap to the face.

“You’re scaring me!” Jehan was white, pressed up against the wall, his hands clenched at his side. Enjolras stopped immediately, feeling his own despair rushing away from him. How could he behave so badly? Jehan was trying to help him, he was Enjolras’s friend.

“I’m sorry, Jehan, I’m so sorry,” he apologised immediately, his voice barely above a whisper. He slumped, exhausted, against the sofa. He was sure his heart was broken.

“Enjolras,” Jehan tried again. “I really think you need to speak to Grantaire. It will make you both feel so much better, I know it.” Enjolras just pressed his face into the pillow.

“I’ve tried, I _have_. He won’t listen to me, Jehan.” Enjolras sat up, wrapping his arms up around his knees. “I’ve lost him.” 

Enjolras pressed his blond head onto his knees, rocking back and forth. Jehan sighed, sitting down next to him, waiting for Enjolras to calm down.

“Enjolras, listen to me. Talk to Grantaire. If he won’t listen to you, then you should wait until he is asleep. Then he’ll have no choice but to hear you. He’ll listen to you and not even know it.”

+

Grantaire was asleep on the sofa when Enjolras got home, a blanket tucked round him tightly. Enjolras moved to stand next to him, looking down at his boyfriend with a terrible mix of affection and pain. 

“Oh, Grantaire,” he sighed. He saw the man stir, his face creasing briefly into a frown.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire exhaled, and the blond couldn’t stop the small smile that crept upon his face as Grantaire said his name.

“I miss you,” Grantaire murmured, still asleep.

“I miss you too,” Enjolras replied, tangling his fingers in soft brown curls. 

“Why did you die, Enjolras? Why did you leave me?”

Enjolras’s blood suddenly ran completely cold. _What?_

+

Only one toothbrush in the bathroom. One plate, one knife and fork, one glass on the draining board. Grantaire preferred to sleep on the couch, or at Jehan’s. Rarely in their bed. 

None of their friends really spoke to him anymore. He thought back to that day in the library, the day he had asked Combeferre and Courfeyrac for their help.

_Courfeyrac, giving Combeferre that worried look, telling Enjolras_

_No_

_Telling Combeferre to go and talk to Grantaire._

But Jehan; he had spoken to Jehan just that afternoon. And Jehan had definitely been talking to him and only him. Jehan had used his name. 

He suddenly remembered how shocked Jehan had been to speak to him. He remembered very clearly what his friend had said.

_Why are you here?_

Not “hello” or “how are you” or any other friendly greeting. Dear, sweet Jehan who always seemed to have one foot out of reality, so Courfeyrac had always said. If anyone was going to be able to… no. This was absurd. He couldn’t be. No.

+

It wasn’t fair. He had so much to do, so much life to live; his life with Grantaire.

“Oh, Grantaire,” he sighed, pain aching in his chest.

_Right._

The pain in his chest. The crowd. He could still feel the fear, taste the dust filling his mouth. He had been confused, had reached out with hands to grab something, grab anything. He didn’t know which way was up and he couldn’t see the sky. He felt like he was going to die.

+

_Hey, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you and please believe me – I didn’t want to leave you either. I wish I could stay. But I can’t._

_I love you so much. Look after Combeferre for me. And make sure he looks after you, too. Live a long life, R. Long and happy, with many adventures. I don’t want to see you until you’re as bald as Bossuet and as old as Marius’s grandfather._

_And can you tell Jehan… tell him thank you._

_I love you, Grantaire. Always remember that._

+

Jehan found Grantaire sitting cross-legged on the grass by Enjolras’s grave. He loitered nervously nearby, not sure whether to approach. 

“It’s ok, Prouvaire,” Grantaire called out softly to him. The curly-haired man turned, eyes blotchy, but there was a strange lightness to him. He stretched out his hand invitingly; Jehan accepted it, stepping forward and then sitting down next to his friend.

“You ok?” It was a rubbish question given that Grantaire had quite obviously been crying quite recently and was currently sitting beside the grave of his late boyfriend. Grantaire managed to give him a smile, nonetheless.

“I dreamt of Enjolras last night. He spoke to me,” Grantaire huffed, staring up at the sky. “I sound crazy, right?”

“No,” Jehan replied, tracing patterns over the back of Grantaire’s hand, the fingers of which were still laced with his own. “No, you don’t sound crazy. What did he say?”

Grantaire gave him a knowing look.

“He said to tell you ‘thank you’.”

Jehan smiled to himself.

“He’s very welcome,” Jehan murmured, squeezing Grantaire’s hand.

Grantaire turned back to Enjolras’s grave, running the fingers of his free hand over the cool stone.

“I miss him so much, Jehan. But, I think I’m going to be ok.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so first of all, because I'm not a plagiarist, I obviously took a lot of inspiration from the Sixth Sense for this fic (I couldn't really tag it as such because it would have ruined the effect) so please accept this as my official nod to the writers of the Sixth Sense - much of the plot is not my own.
> 
> I am so sorry. I am especially sorry to Sarah my beta, who apparently cried on a bus while reading this for the first time. I don't even know where this came from, it just tumbled out of my brain.
> 
> Please feel free to yell at me below or in my askbox on tumblr (lynchy8) and apologies again,


End file.
